 | Poems |  |
A VILLAGE TALE.
The rooks are cawing in the elms,
As on the very day,
That sunny morning, mother dear,
When Lucy went away;
And April's pleasant gleams have come,
And April's gentle rain;
Fresh leaves are on the vine, but when
Will Lucy come again?
As on the very day,
That sunny morning, mother dear,
When Lucy went away;
And April's pleasant gleams have come,
And April's gentle rain;
Fresh leaves are on the vine, but when
Will Lucy come again?
143
The spring is as it used to be,
And all must be the same;
And yet I miss the feeling now
That always with it came;
It seems as if to me she made
The sweetness of the year;
As if I could be glad no more,
Now Lucy is not here.
And all must be the same;
And yet I miss the feeling now
That always with it came;
It seems as if to me she made
The sweetness of the year;
As if I could be glad no more,
Now Lucy is not here.
A year—it seems but yesterday,
When in this very door
You stood, and she came running back,
To say good-bye once more;
I hear your sob—your parting kiss,
The last fond words you said;
Ah! little did we think—one year,
And Lucy would be dead!
When in this very door
You stood, and she came running back,
To say good-bye once more;
I hear your sob—your parting kiss,
The last fond words you said;
Ah! little did we think—one year,
And Lucy would be dead!
How all comes back—the happy times,
Before our father died,
When, blessed with him, we knew no want,
Scarce knew a wish denied;
His loss, and all our struggles on,
And that worst dread, to know,
From home, too poor to shelter all,
That one at last must go.
Before our father died,
When, blessed with him, we knew no want,
Scarce knew a wish denied;
His loss, and all our struggles on,
And that worst dread, to know,
From home, too poor to shelter all,
That one at last must go.
How often do I blame myself!
How often do I think,
How wrong I was to shrink from that
From which she did not shrink!
And when I wish that I had gone,
And know the wish is vain,
And say, she might have lived, I think,
How can I smile again!
How often do I think,
How wrong I was to shrink from that
From which she did not shrink!
And when I wish that I had gone,
And know the wish is vain,
And say, she might have lived, I think,
How can I smile again!
I dread to be alone, for then,
Before my swimming eyes,
Her parting face, her waving hand,
Distinct before me rise;
Slow rolls the waggon down the road;
I watch it disappear;
Her last “dear sister,” faint “good-by,”
Still lingering in my ear.
Before my swimming eyes,
Her parting face, her waving hand,
Distinct before me rise;
144
I watch it disappear;
Her last “dear sister,” faint “good-by,”
Still lingering in my ear.
Oh, mother, had but father lived,
It would not have been thus;
Or, if God still had taken her,
She would have died with us,
She would have had kind looks, fond words,
Around her dying bed,
Our hands to press her dying hands,
To raise her dying head.
It would not have been thus;
Or, if God still had taken her,
She would have died with us,
She would have had kind looks, fond words,
Around her dying bed,
Our hands to press her dying hands,
To raise her dying head.
I'm always thinking, mother, now,
Of what she must have thought,
Poor girl! as day on day went by,
And neither of us brought;
Of how she must have yearned, one face,
That was not strange, to see;
Have longed one moment to have set
One look on you and me.
Of what she must have thought,
Poor girl! as day on day went by,
And neither of us brought;
Of how she must have yearned, one face,
That was not strange, to see;
Have longed one moment to have set
One look on you and me.
Sometimes I dream a happy dream;
I think that she is laid
Beside our own old village church,
Where we so often played;
And I can sit upon her grave,
And with her we shall lie,
Afar from where the city's noise
And thronging feet go by.
I think that she is laid
Beside our own old village church,
Where we so often played;
And I can sit upon her grave,
And with her we shall lie,
Afar from where the city's noise
And thronging feet go by.
Nay, mother, mother, weep not so;
God judges for the best;
And from a world of pain and woe
He took her to his rest;
Why should we wish her back again?
Oh, freed from sin and care,
Let us the rather pray God's love
Ere long to join her there.
God judges for the best;
And from a world of pain and woe
He took her to his rest;
Why should we wish her back again?
Oh, freed from sin and care,
Let us the rather pray God's love
Ere long to join her there.
| Poems | |